Pothole
My birth did not affect anything just like my death would affect nothing. And the vicious cycle of birth and death will go on. Forever. For eternity, until eternity touches its end. I woke up at the screech of horns, din of cars, buses and pack of colourful vehicles running with speed of future and sound of humans’ meaningless squabble. When I slowly opened my eyes, a vivid blue sky canopied my entire body like a blanket of coziness. My body unlike that of humans had no definite form. I could not walk. Nor could I dance in rejoice or talk incessantly in exasperation.
I was not considered a life to the life of this planet, yet I was something for sure. I was a pothole.
Purpose:
Hardly did I know why and how I was created or who created me. The ambiguity of past made my present so excruciating that I did little to glance at future and understand the meaning of my existence. I lay there with one thought only. “Why am I here?”
My inability of walking or talking somehow kept me in the state of ignorance. Aloof. It was beautiful as well as dreadful. I was to listen to the languages of complaint around me. Forcefully. And I was incapable of countering it which gave me the power of patience. Then one day, the meaning of my existence came to me. I thought it did.
A passerby, being in a hurry, stumbled on me. His shiny black boots got smeared with my viscous spit. A cocktail of dirt, water and tar. He looked at me in a state between disgust and rage as if I, who was incapable of moving at all, considered more useless than a cripple, had ruined his perfect day, as if without his shiny boots he would not be able to enjoy the warmth of sunshine, touch of gentle winds, colours of nature.
While I was flabbergasted, that man did something which seemed to me terrible as well as meaningful. “Bloody pothole!”, He cursed.
That insult was meant to hurt me mentality or spiritually whichever seems relevant. But, I found the hidden essence behind those two words.
He uttered my name. I was noticed. I, one unimportant pothole, got noticed. Not recognition, not utmost fame, just a bit mention of my name. I felt elated. I felt I was something. The worthless world of my mind got filled with joy of acceptance.
From that day on, my sole purpose of life was to hackle every passerby with my presence. I did not need to work hard for that. I lay just there, waiting. People stumbled upon me on their own and endowed me with their generous curse. I had been called with different phrases. “Stupid pothole”, “Screw you, pothole”. Every phrase had my name. I was the pothole.
Humans:
As my familiarity with society got expanded, I discovered rules made by humans so that rules could rule humans. Red signal implied “STOP”. Green, “MOVE”. Yellow, “SLOW DOWN”. Hooking seatbelts on while driving was necessary. Wearing helmets was necessary. These traffic rules were made for safety. Everyone was to follow these rules. They should, because of the ultimate consequence — death. But, they ignored it in almost every occasion. Fear of death was more irrelevant than that of giving fine. Money against consequences.
Rules are necessary as long as necessary becomes negligence. Negligence seemed the innate quality of mankind. They neglected as long as they could until they encountered with consequences. I assumed that I was one of those consequences. They ignored my presence. My presence gave dirt on their shoes. I got attention. I got pleasure. They. They just carried on ignoring.
Days and nights:
Nights and days told two different story. Days were filled scorching heat. The sun controlled everything with its vehement wrath. Humans in their sweaty costume played the role of obedient sheep. They went to work in order to earn money. They did what they were told. They did what they were not told. No question could be asked. No sense of doubt could be born. Humans are the wardens of their own prison.
The journey of earning money went across the river of negligence. The more they neglected, the more they earned money. The more they earned money, the more got drowned in the river. They craved money just like I craved recognition. More additive than need.
I saw those humans racing with time. Always rushing like scurrying rats, crushing one another in order to eat money with a hollow month revealing the hunger in their insatiable stomach of superiority. There was not much difference between humans and animals. Only a few drops of intelligence. With it, humans drew an indelible picture of class, caste, creed, religion, nationality and many more, without knowing consequences, perhaps. How many “ism” had smitten one another was legibly drawn on the pages of history.
As this picture slowly became too large to be ignored, they created numerous books of laws assuring justice, affirming stability. Days were their playground to play with books as long as those were fresh. When rotten or sometimes when not rotten, in the temple of parliamentary farce, they delineated new edition of books of laws, as frivolous as the earlier edition.
As the sun slowly plunged behind horizon and night arrived, a dreadful peace tailed behind like a vindictive wraith of vivid day. Story of nights was filled with menacing silence. The hectic routine of days went to sleep and the presence of human receded. Starry sky, laden with thousands of unknown worlds, canopied land below. The untamed speed of life died down along with that of vehicles. Silence shrouded air like floating mist of uncertainty. In that silence, the evil façade of world woke up, taking the charge of frigate that was to sail across the river of negligence with almost nobody to witness it.
Unlike the rules of days, which were quite easy to understand, the river of negligence at night had no proper form, flowing through the conduit of threat. Deceased savage woke up from a deep slumber preparing to leap onto prey.
An anonymous storyteller was writing stories with “fountain of blood”. Nobody to witness. Nobody but me.
I had seen a horrible death of a man after his car crashed. Before his last breath, he came to me and washed his blood-soaked face from the puddle on my body. He did not find me filthy. Water in my chest did not disgust him.
“Please… God…” He said to himself even though it seemed that he talked to me. Or perhaps he did talked to me. Perhaps, I was God. Invisible. Silent. Metaphysical. Sadistic. Man-made.
I had seen his face, glowing in the street light. The face of a dying man. He had no fear, no worries, no arrogance of being a man, no skin of supremacy. Everything that he had believed throughout his life had become meaningless at that moment. Meaningless.
Just before his eyes were shut, I saw them. His eyes were the mirrors of forgotten dreams. Unfulfilled desire, dwelling in them, murmured. Death is the most peaceful sleep that a human can dive into. Did he want to die? No. Yet, he had to. And death swaddled him like a child. Caressed him like a true lover. Enmeshed him in a trap of deceitful ecstasy. Promised him soft cradle in the garden of Eden in exchange of his blind faith.
I had also seen a woman once. Her dress was torn. Her face, bruised. Her hair, tousled. She came staggering and sat next to me. Blood dripped between her legs, smearing my face. She was cold like ice, quieter than death. A disoriented apparition. There was no sign of life in her, aside from nearly inaudible heartbeat, throbbing like moribund thunder.
She sat there until she saw a truck, coming towards her. As it came closer, she became alive. Her last drop of life. She walked in front of the truck and I felt her blood smearing my face a bit more.
Blood. Red. “STOP”. It was a confluence of many a river. And it was impossible to find out the source of the red. Creator and creation mingled each other.
Two humans. Two different rendezvous with death. One fought as long as he could like any other animal ought to survive. The other embraced death defying the primordial animal instinct of survival. How?
Cotton Candy:
I thought smile was the omen of happiness. Tears, the pearls of sorrow. Yet, I saw humans smiling in pain and tears depicting zenith of bliss.
A blue-frock-girl showed me the perplexity of smile and tears. She came with an middle-aged man in the time of festival. What kind of festival? I did not know. Does it matter? Every festival is same, contrived by humans for blithe celebration. Celebration gives happiness. Happiness is ambrosia garnished with ignorance.
I wonder how humans can completely engrossed in the anesthesia of bliss on the name of someone’s birthday as well as someone else’s death day as if birth and death are similar and seek happiness. Bliss and sorrow, marrying each other. Festival is the stupid offspring of those emotions. Especially those festivals, in the guise of unavoidable occasions, assigned by Gods. They are the excuses made by humans, the most auspicious ones, the most sensitive ones, the most offensive ones, to adorn the earth with light, noise, crowd, pollution and obviously the most sought-after one “happiness”. Inside the cloak of skin, a few hormones churn with one another, a sense of ecstasy gives them pleasure. They get happiness in this meaningless world with meaningless actions. In a loop of addiction.
When blue-frock-girl arrived, the town was bedecked with strings of artificial stars, hanging like teeth of a vindictive monster grinning at the childish trick of humans. She was more in awe than I was. The speed of city life made her slow. An unnoticed star hidden under clouds. She was like I when I was an infant. Eager. Scared. Excited. Her life of village became timidly reticent before clamour of swindlers. Her innocence, a lavish meal for the city to devour. The more I saw her, the clearer I knew that she would have three options. One would end her life. Another would take away her innocence. Or both.
The middle-aged man was her father. I heard them talking after they stumbled upon my body. Unlike others, they did not curse me afterwards. An eerie silence shrouded them. An omen of hostility. The father bought her a packet of cotton candy. Her last cotton candy. She held it with one hand, seeking happiness in it. With other hand, she held her father’s hairy scrawny hand, seeking trust. A big smile was on her small face.
Then her father exchanged her with a bundle of papers. In the world of humans, these pieces of paper has great value. “Money”. The weapon of survival.
The blue-frock-girl seemingly was not least bit of surprised. She saw the new manly hand which held her soft hand like a beast held onto a piece of meat. Perhaps, she was a piece of meat. Now sold with a price. Her birth in this miserable world had been fulfilled. Her father gave her life. Now, he had given her a purpose to fulfill.
As her father jostled through the crowd, slowly fading like lost memories of past, she watched him, with tears in her eyes and smile on her face. Why she was smiling, I wonder.
Name, blood and honour:
I began accepting my life. I knew I could not compete with anyone let alone winning. I had to be here on a street whose name I did not know. I did not want to know. I knew that name of this street had been changed a few days ago. The first name was after an emperor who had been loved by humans once. As time passed and new generations of humans were born, they had realised lately that the emperor was an outsider if not an intruder and must not be remembered. Every little sign of him must be eradicated, starting from the name of this street. This new name was given ceremoniously. Again after a ruler.
Like a carnival, the street was crammed with people who called themselves journalists. They dashed here and there with cameras and microphones, waylaying passersby with questions like, “What is your opinion about this new name?” This went on for days and then it stops. Again the river of negligence.
Once this generation of humans gave birth to new generations, the contribution of the ruler, after whom the street was named currently, would be challenged and a new name would be chosen. Oblivion is the ultimate outcome.
There was a statue, a feet behind me, standing like a forlorn hero of history. I had heard someone identifying the statue as an important one. It resembled someone who had fought for a cause. An important cause. To honour his name and his memory, this statue was built. It was an image of a man in stiff rock in lieu of flesh and blood. He stood in pride. Lustre of respect glistened from his rocky body. His gesture was of a hero or of a villain. Is there any distinction between a hero and a villain? Only perception. Perception can put a human on pedestal with reverence and can also chop off his head in blind rage.
Centuries later, the statue had become lavatory for birds. Head of the statue was always covered with excrement of birds. The lustre of the statue had mingled with excrement. Perhaps, weight of excrement was the honour of fighting for an important cause.
Humans bear vehement emotions about names, blood and honour. Another sign of having conscience. I had never seen a mouse thumping its chest in pride because of a name or blood or honour of its ancestors.
Name. “What’s in a name?” Everything or anything or nothing or something.
Election:
I could not understand what an election was. But as I watched the farce around me, the concept of election was cleared to me. Name, blood and honour were tools by which it operated even though I heard someone called it “a war of ideologies”.
The term “election” came to my notice when I heard a conversation between two gentlemen. One of them stumble upon me, having his trousers and shirt smeared with dirt. He and his friend bestowed beautiful cursed upon me. I received it gracefully.
“Bloody pothole, wait till election. You’ll be taken care of.” Said one of those men.
“Exactly. There will be no pothole after election. “ The other man said and they went off.
This was my first encounter with the word “election”. That little conversation between two men affected me terribly. I got petrified. Election was a huge threat for me. I, pothole. Why? What did we do to election? I was created by someone or something. I did not know. My essence was not clear to me. Nobody told me what to do with my life. I chose my essence by seeking what gave me pleasure. Now, my existence was in threat.
As days went by, I become more curious about election. I kept myself alert on every detail about election. I did not need to work hard. Just like any festival, streets were adorned with the colour of election. Almost every conversation was focused on election. A fad.
Election was supposed to be the greatest tool that put democracy on practice. Various candidates exerted themselves in a way to showcase their qualities, taking vow to save people, the country and the invisible border around it. Democracy where citizens rule. A beautiful but abstract dream.
Candidates made numerous promises. They made so many promises that they could not even track them properly. A little book was published. Manifesto. One of those promises was life-threatening to me. Fixing pothole. Killing me.
I was flabbergasted for two reason. First, humans have given too much priority to me. Quite unexpectedly. Second, how can my being alive affect democracy?
As dates of election came closer, the festivity of the town got escalated. It started with slogans, announcement of candidates’ precious appearances. Then walls were painted with names of those candidates along with their pictures, folding their hands in namaskar. So humble! Their supporters marched throughout the town with loud slogans, competing with horns of cars. Sometimes, horns of cars were their slogan.
Finally, the judgement day arrived with a glimpse of future. People chose their favourite leader by voting. It was also like a festival. Festival of saving democracy. Every one of them showcased their ink-smeared finger, taking selfies, posting on social media. Digital war of virtual gangs. “A war on different ideologies”. A sign of participation in saving democracy. Before election, there were lots of participants with their respective banner. Flowers. Body parts. Weapons. Vehicles. Lots of emblems.
Result was as expected. Someone lost. Someone won. Nothing changed aside from the colour with which the supporters smudged their faces after winning. Their face, gleamed with joy of victory, they walked as if they had vanquished evil for good. With two fingers in a shape of V, they constantly enumerated quality of their goodness. Their banner shone throughout the town and would shine for a few more years.
Monsoon:
Even after the result of election, I was unharmed. Surprisingly. I guess, there were more important matters for the chosen favourite leader to attend to, apart from killing me.
Initial few days, every one was talking about the leader. Every action of the leader was revered. People were utterly optimistic. They truly believed that all of their problems would be solved in no time.
There would be no rape, no murder, no corruption, no jobless mob, no threat from neighbour counties, no scarcity of food and obviously no more pothole.
As days passed, sanguine dream of achieving greatness came downhill. The leader denied the book of manifesto. People were stuck with a leader, who had turned into an exploiter, for another a couple of years. Same old story. I was safe though. Well, that was what I thought.
As trees flapped their leaves and winds changed directions, a new season was born. Monsoon. Sky turned grey, wearing a coat of thick clouds. The precious time of dusk and dawn vanished in the world of black and white as if no opinion really mattered in waves of countless morose declarations. Almost every other colour faded on the canvas of nature. Birds strove to protect their shelter. Accompanied by the sporadic thunder, air was engulfed by madness. Downpour became ceaseless as if world would assimilate in water and leap back to the primordial state again. There was no trace of the sun.
I was pelted with drops of water continuously for days. I was drowned again and again. In the world of water, there was no sound, no proper way of breathing. Void. Could I breathe? Could I be dead? How does it feel to be dead? What happens afterwards? Is there afterlife? Is there life?
Since beginning, I had understood that nothing was everlasting. What has a beginning, has to have an end as well.
Along with streams of water, a little fish landed on my watery chest, swirling in motion of water, flapping its fin as hard as it could. Unlike humans, it did not curse me or recognise me. It had no language to outburst its anger or joy. I wonder what it was thinking about. This curse of ceaseless rain must have taken it out of home. It was stranded. The emotion of frustration should have eaten it within. Yet, it felt nothing. How lucky it was! Or how unlucky it was!
Then, rain stopped. A group of children came with a net and caught the fish. Everything went back to normalcy. Everything but one.
The end:
The change came to my understanding with a similar situation that I had experienced earlier. An office goer stumbled on something. His immaculate boots and trousers were smeared with dirt. He cursed, “Bloody Pothole!” Same two words. But, those words were not for me. Whom did he call “Pothole”? Who was my namesake?
It happened again and again. Someone had stolen my name along with the essence of my existence. What would I do without the essence of my existence?
It is not easy to discover the purpose of life. Most humans live blithely having the wrong notion of unlocking the purpose. To believe in that baseless purpose, they have to give up questioning just like I did. They become blind, deaf and imbeciles just like I was. They declare their way of living “the most righteous one”, “any other way is wrong” in a vainglorious manner. They belligerently block reasons and clarity, promoting great importance of belief. Faith.
To them, questions are dangerous. To them, science is the slaughter of belief. To them, philosophy is nonsense. When they encounter with someone who questions and analyses, they bombard them with celestial prophecy, “You don’t understand it now. But, you will regret. ONE DAY. The lord will punish you for eternity.”. Can they really predict what eternity is?
Then, they crawl back into their little world where everything is beautiful, meaningful, purposeful and peaceful with a notion of having all the answers of universe. They had lost the courage to endeavour. How can anyone know all the answers? Is the explanation behind the creation of the universe and life so easy?
When I lost recognition, I also lost the purpose of my life. In a universe with limitless possibilities, I was happy with limited knowledge. I was happy being in a cage. I thought my cage was my home and my home was my world. There was nothing remained to be sought. I was satisfied as if I were in a sweet dream, invincible, stubborn not to wake up, despite witnessing the chaos around me. Dream finally broke when I was acquainted with inevitability. Behind the façade of order and stability, a mountain of questions was remained unanswered. Still is. No easy answer must not quench thirst. The mystery of universe is awaiting, beckoning every little being with conscience, challenging.
I had missed lots of things. I should seek again. Maybe, I would fail. Yet. I must persevere with quest for knowledge. I would. I thought I would but I could not.
I saw my namesake. He was bigger than I was, still innocent, lying just next to me like me. Every curse, he got from humans, gave him pleasure. I could see impish look on his face, replicating my face that I had in my childhood. The satisfaction that shone on his face gave him the wrong notion of having sought the purpose of his life. He had began embracing his cage, making a home out of it. Slowly he became bigger and bigger, about to touch me.
Monsoon must have had affected the street. Asphalt was worn out. Birth of my namesake was perhaps an accidental outcome of last monsoon. Just an accident. Was my birth an accident as well or a result of someone else’s deliberate plan? I did not know.
My existence got lost in oblivion when my namesake engulfed me. My namesake was born truly then. His existence stood on my grave. Did my true birth cause someone’s death as well? I could not remember.
My death did not affect anything just like my birth affected nothing. And the vicious cycle of death and birth goes on. Forever. For eternity, until eternity touches its end.
